Loneliness and longing in Eric Rohmer’s ‘The Green Ray’
When considering the French New Wave, names like Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut tend to spring to mind first. Yet, it was Eric Rohmer who became one of the era’s most enduring filmmakers, creating spectacular movies long after the initial wave was over. While films from his Six Moral Tales series, such as La Collectioneuse and Love in the Afternoon, are excellent, Rohmer further proved his genius with later instalments in his career, such as 1986’s The Green Ray, which remains one of his best works.
Rohmer’s Six Moral Tales series revolves around male protagonists, many of whom are depicted as self-important and chauvinistic, while the women are typically portrayed as intelligent. However, it wasn’t until his Comedies and Proverbs series, which began with The Aviator’s Wife, that Rohmer truly gave his female characters the autonomy they deserved, with most of these movies featuring a female lead. The Green Ray, the series’ penultimate entry, is undoubtedly the best of the six, with Rohmer working in close collaboration with lead actor Marie Rivière.
The movie was made with a very small crew, who dubbed themselves ‘le club des cinq’. Rohmer was the only man present, apart from the male actors that occasionally appear in the film. The director made a conscious effort to mainly hire women to create The Green Ray, with Rivière joined by Françoise Etchegarary as production manager, Claudine Nougare covering sound, and Sophie Maintigneux operating the camera. Outside of shooting, Margaret Ménégoz produced the film, and María Luisa García edited the project.
With Rivière in charge of writing and improvising much of her dialogue, the movie takes on a distinctively feminine angle. Before the 1980s, many popular movies about alienation and loneliness were androcentric, such as Taxi Driver and The Apartment. Yet, The Green Ray offers an unapologetically female exploration of depression and aimlessness, with Rivière giving a refreshingly honest and emotional performance as Delphine.
There isn’t a strong plotline that runs through The Green Ray; instead, we follow Delphine as she finds something to do for her summer holiday following the disintegration of her relationship. To make matters worse, her friend decides to cancel their joint holiday in favour of a man, leaving Delphine feeling unwanted and alone. Attempting to find solace in some other friends, she only ends up feeling more isolated in their presence, with Rivière perfectly capturing this paradoxical phenomenon. Delphine realises that she doesn’t even feel connected to those who are meant to make her feel loved and appreciated, leading her to continue her travels elsewhere, searching for solace in brand new connections while exploring alone.
The film communicates the soul-crushing experience of anxiety, loneliness and depression so beautifully and truthfully, allowing the focus to remain entirely on Delphine. At one point, she states: “I have plenty to express, but I choose not to do so.” Delphine reflects the unspoken struggle that so many people experience, of wanting to express thoughts and ideas but being too scared or too tired to put ourselves through the motions of being misunderstood or ignored. Rohmer’s lens acknowledges Delphine’s inability to connect with others with such empathy and tenderness easily. It’s almost as though we become Delphine’s needed companion. Although she can’t see us, the camera prioritises her when no one else will.
For example, the scene in which Delphine talks at length about her vegetarianism could easily be reduced or edited down. Yet, Rohmer lets us sit with Delphine’s passions, giving her an audience who actually cares, in contrast to the dinner guests who simply don’t understand her beliefs. At times, the camera slowly pans onto her face, which lights up as she discusses her ideas. Yet, the natural anxiety that occurs when trying to appease others – attempting to connect despite knowing you’re not compatible – shines through as she says, “Maybe I’m not aware of things […] maybe I’m wrong,” while nervously touching her hair.
At some point on her journey, Delphine becomes obsessed with the idea of seeing the rare ‘green ray’ phenomenon, a flash of emerald light that appears at the last moment of sunset. Her desire to see the green ray comes to represent her quest for fulfilment. If she can witness this hard-to-come-by moment, maybe things won’t turn out so bad – maybe the possibility of finding a special connection will occur. As the film continues, Delphine’s sadness is temporarily alleviated when she meets a new friend on the beach, Léna; however, this connection quickly crumbles when she realises they aren’t at all alike. Once again, Delphine feels more alone than ever in Léna’s presence, who engages in vacuous flirtation with random men, unsuccessfully encouraging Delphine to do the same.
Finally, after many tears and lonesome walks through nature, Delphine meets a man, Jacques, in the train station who offers a glimpse of hope. However, The Green Ray isn’t merely the tale of a man saving a woman from her sadness. The two begin to chat, and they decide to watch the sunset together. We discover little about the man, who only appears in the final 15 minutes. He could be perfect for Delphine, or perhaps not. What matters is that, near the end of a long period of loneliness, Delphine finally finds someone she connects with, and the idea of romance and companionship doesn’t seem so far away after all.
For Delphine, love is happiness – she functions best when she’s not on her own, and Jacques finally makes her feel a little less alone. Even better, she sees the green ray, breaking down into bittersweet tears as she realises that all feelings, like her sadness, are finite. There is plenty of joy to be found in the smallest of moments, such as watching the sun go down or the unknown possibilities which come with connecting with a stranger. Rohmer offers a slice of welcome optimism to Delphine’s story, which, in turn, offers consolation to audience members who identify with her character.
